


sense of scale

by orphan_account



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You sit at a desk in the lab, cane propped up by your side, nursing a lukewarm lager as Newton snores at your feet. You made an appearance at the victory celebrations, which were enjoyable enough but a bit too loud and hectic for your tastes when the crowd’s intoxication levels started to push steadily into the extremely inebriated zone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sense of scale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SG1SamFan (LemonScience33)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonScience33/gifts).



> Thank you very much to stunrunner and bilbobagginshield for their edits!

You sit at a desk in the lab, cane propped up by your side, nursing a lukewarm lager as Newton snores at your feet. You made an appearance at the victory celebrations, which were enjoyable enough but a bit too loud and hectic for your tastes when the crowd’s intoxication levels started to push steadily into the extremely inebriated zone. As such, you departed after only a couple of hours and about as many drinks. Despite being tired, you felt like a bit too much of a bore at the prospect of immediately going to sleep, so you headed back to the lab instead.

Newton stayed out longer but nowhere near as long as you expected. It's midnight now, and he returned about an hour prior. He also apparently decided to leave the celebrations fairly early, no doubt exhausted from the taxing weeks - and the particularly taxing twenty-four hours - leading up to this. Whereas your choice of location was a conscious choice, it was no doubt out of habit that he wandered back to the lab instead of to his quarters. You would have tried to direct him back to his room if he had not immediately settled down on the ground beside you, briefly babbling something nonsensical about proper rest and saving the world, and promptly falling asleep.

The fact that he couldn't even be bothered to plant himself on the dingy couch he kept in a corner for power naps (and collecting crumbs, judging by the number of sandwiches he ate while sitting on it - it was a miracle the lab never got mice) only demonstrated how disoriented he must be. However, even if Newton had settled on the couch and you could move easily without disturbing him, instead of having his cheek resting against your shoe, it seemed unwise to depart and leave him unsupervised in this condition. The thought that you need to babysit your drunk colleague makes you roll your eyes, but more than that, you do care about him. After all, you had enough concern to risk your life Drifting with that idiot, not to mention your previously-well repressed attraction you harbor towards him.

You glance over to his side of the room. There’s still half-dissected pieces of alien flesh, slowly beginning to rot despite Newton's care. The smell is as foul as always but you’re used to it by now. Everything in this room smells like kaiju, including you and Newton. Especially Newton.

If someone had asked you a week ago if you'd be sad to see the kaiju gone, you would have scoffed. While they presented a fascinating problem, one which consumed you for over a decade, it would be absurd to miss a threat to not merely yourself but literally humanity's very existence. Now, while sad isn't quite the right word, there is a sort of strange, nostalgic regret.

You never fully appreciated the sheer magnitude, or as much as it pains you to say it so dramatically, the sheer _majesty_ of the kaiju until you Drifted with Newton. You knew their statistics by heart, both because many of the details were relevant to your research and, for those that weren’t, because Newton never ceased yammering about them. But knowing that, for example, Yamarashi was 2,500 tons, 64 meters, and the largest Category III prior to Knifehead was very different than walking up to a just-deceased kaiju and its fetus, air reeking of ammonia, guts and destruction and Kaiju Blue everywhere. Particularly after Drifting with Newton.

That intimate event subtly but inexorably shifted your perspective in ways you still cannot fully articulate. Your fingers twitch and your teeth grit every time you try to capture it in concrete words, rather than pesky emotions too vague to pin down. You wouldn’t admit it to him, lest you stroke his already oversized ego, though you wonder if anything changed inside his head as well.

You glance down at him again and are struck with a rash urge to stroke his mussed hair. You're extremely glad he isn't awake, because no matter how quickly you look away and attempt to thrust the thought from your mind, your cheeks warm perceptibly. Prior to Drifting, you knew exactly where you stood with him. Now, after seeing flickers of not only his memories but his fears, his ideas, his _fantasies_ , you're not so sure. Worse, you know he saw some of yours as well, though as far as you know, nothing unambiguously incriminating.

Newton snorts in his sleep and tries to roll over, only to bump his shoulder into one of the legs of the desk. You sigh and take a sip of your beer, only to immediately wrinkle your nose. The beverage is vile now that it's fully at room temperature. Reluctantly abandoning that last excuse to merely sit here while your shoes serve as a poor excuse for a pillow for Newton, you scoot your chair back and extricate your feet. It would be best if he moved to the couch anyway. He’ll be insufferably whiny in the morning if he arises with soreness from sleeping on the floor as well as from a hangover. Newton however, no doubt in the midst of some dream, reaches out and nearly knocks you off balance as he attempts to wrap an arm around your ankles.

“Cease that and get up,” you say, poking him in the side with your cane. “You're going to get a terrible backache if you keep sleeping on the floor, not to mention bruise yourself on the table legs more so than you have already.”

He shifts and lets out a loud snore, as if to mock you, emphasizing how very not-awake he is in stark contrast to your demands. You move the tip of your cane to his belly and prod him more forcefully.

“I have no time nor interest to deal with you being difficult now.”

“Nah, comfy s'here,” Newton mutters as he throws an arm over his face, his words slurring slightly. At least he never bothered to dig around to find and don his spare pair of glasses, so there are no concerns about him further damaging this already cracked pair.

“You are not actually comfortable; you're merely tired and overcome with inertia. In the morning you will absolutely regret your choice of sleeping arrangements, particularly when there's a couch not many meters away where you would get much better rest.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t get better rest?” You make an exasperated noise. “Stop being contrary and get up already.”

“Make me.” He sounds a bit more awake now, but is making no sign of being cooperative.

“You're being positively ridiculous. I cannot carry you, so it's up to you to get yourself upright and relocated.”

“M'not moving away from you. I like it here.”

“I will still be in the vicinity. I'm not letting you fall back asleep alone yet if only because I don't wish to have our victory marred by the tragedy of you choking to death on your own vomit in your sleep.”

“Not that drunk, Herms,” he protests, grabbing your foot again.

“That's it.” You reach down and tug his hand off your shoe. He provides little resistance, but once you’ve succeeded he interlaces his fingers with yours. You loosen your grip, not wanting to release him but also not keen on to letting him sleepily pull you off balance. After all, the most logical explanation for him continuing to hold onto your hand is that he wants assistance rising to his feet. Despite that very reasonable interpretation of the situation, you find him neither letting go of your hand nor making any move to get up, simply leaving you slightly bent over, his hand squeezing yours.

His hand is smaller than your own but not by much, perhaps a roughly 4:5 ratio. The dimensions are not consistent, however, as the size of his palm and length of his fingers follow that ratio, but the width of his fingers do not. His digits are actually a bit less slender than your own, though they possess a certain elegance nevertheless. The back of his wrist is lightly dusted with dark hair, his palm warm and slightly sweaty.

You shake your head and return to your original goal, trying a different tactic by combining a gentle tug with the politest request you can manage. “Please get up.”

Astoundingly, it works. Newton groans and very slowly moves to stand, tightening his grip on your hand. You steady yourself with your cane and manage to help him to his feet without getting too preoccupied by the sensation of his hand in yours. It occurs to you that this is the most physical intimacy you've ever had with him. Apart from a few awkward hand shakes and attempts at “fist bumps,” and the hug this afternoon (which already feels a world away), you two have not touched. It’s not a thing you do, or did, at least.

You don't try to let go of his hand again as he trudges towards the couch, bumping into his lab table and nearly knocking some pieces of kaiju entrails off of it in the process. Fortunately, he avoids any further obstacles and reaches the couch. You relax your grip so that he can release you and collapse onto it; you can fetch a book and a chair to keep yourself awake while he slumbers. Or rather you could if he released you instead of yanking you to tumble down next to him.

“Couch's better, you're right,” Newton mutters over your surprised, halfhearted protests. You shift into a more proper seated position as he grabs your other hand and squeezes. Your pulse is heavy in your ears as you viciously repress your mind from jumping to any conclusions yet. You cannot get ahead of yourself, but you really don’t know what else to think, reasonably, as he leans in. You don't dare shift a millimeter away. All the images from his mind involving you – not just memories but fantasies, thoughts, perceived possibilities – flash through your head again. You only caught brief glimpses of them while Drifting, but they left you with far more questions than answers, .

“You're right,” he repeats, like it's some grand revelation, something distinctly important. There are violet-tinted circles under his weary eyes, lids drooping with exhaustion, but he doesn't take his gaze off of you.

“You should sleep,” you say. Both the words and the sentiment sound inane the moment they leave your mouth, but Newton hardly seems to hear them.

“No, that’s not what I should do.” He pauses. “No, I think I should kiss you.”

Your face flushes with warmth. That’s definitely unambiguous, unless it’s merely the intoxication talking. You absolutely hope the latter possibility is not the case. Regardless, you will yourself not to look away as he continues, clasping your hands tightly as he speaks.

“Not that I'm going to just kiss you, because I'm not really a rock star, but I should, because I want to, and I can blame it on being drunk.” You feel slightly queasy for a second but he rushes onward. “I've wanted to though - to kiss you, not to be drunk. Well okay, I want to be drunk too, but mostly so I can forget about wanting to kiss you. Except apparently that doesn't work. Because I still want to kiss you.” He looks at you with a sudden hesitant hopefulness that gives you the sappiest feeling you can possibly imagine. “Can I kiss you?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but force yourself to halt and revise.

“You're drunk; you're hardly in your right mind.” It's true, and you have to force back a scowl from your face. There is no denying it; you do want to, you want to kiss him even more than you want to correct him that he means _“May”_ rather than _“Can.”_ You lean in a little more regardless, glancing down at your interlocked hands to avoid his earnest, puppy-dog eyes. You're conflicted, fearing that the only logical answer is to table this and revisit it after he is sober. Perfectly reasonable, except that that would be especially awkward if this is indeed no more than drunken rambling on his part. That, plus the little detail that you would very much like to kiss him now, in addition to later.

“That's not an answer. Wait, oh, how about, _may_ I kiss you? May I kiss you, Hermann? Or do I have to wait until I'm not drunk? Cause I’d like to think that I could do that but I’m not sure. I mean, that’s why I didn’t kiss you all those times I could have before. Well, that and I wasn’t sure how you felt about me until we Drifted. I’m still not entirely sure, actually.” He chuckles nervously. “Hence I'm asking. May I kiss you? Did I ask that already? May I please?”

Clearly he's not going to give up on this. He’s so close now that with his last words, you can feel his breath upon your face. The closer his lips get, the more you need them, regardless of whether or not this is an astoundingly bad idea.

You feel your heart pound within your chest as you reply, “Yes, you did ask it, but yes, you may.”

“Really?” He looks surprised, but not an iota less delighted than he did when the war clock was deactivated. “Then I'm going to kiss you.”

Immediately, Newton closes the remaining centimeters between you, pressing his mouth against yours. His lips are parted and he immediately goes in with tongue, sloppy and unabashed and a little bit gross, but you feel no disgust, only desire. He tastes like whiskey and sour mix and even still a coppery hint of blood which lights your nerves like a circuit board, because it's Newton and he wants you in some confusing tangled way that overlaps, if not mirrors, the confusing, tangled way that you want him. That you, in this moment, _need_ him.

The moment feels like a millisecond, but you know it was much, much longer as you reluctantly pulls back. You yearn to kiss more, you want anything but to stop, but you are not going any further when he is still far from sober. If he really wants this, he will still want it when he awakes.

“That’s it?” Newton slumps back against the couch, yawning loudly. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because you should sleep.” Control, you remind yourself, is vital to success. The risks of impatience outweigh the benefits. Still, you feel your heart racing and long for more. Soon, you remind yourself. Soon.

“Can I kiss you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” That one question floods you with relief. “I sincerely hope that you do. Now sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Human bodies don't make sense_  
>  _So if you just inhale, inhale_  
>  _You give me a sense of scale_  
>  \- _1:1_ , Psychologist


End file.
